I wake up and check my cell phone, seeing I’d missed a phone call. I unlock it, checking who called and find they left a voicemail. I read my voicemail and I’m taken aback by what was there, calling the voicemail just to double check if what had shown on the screen was correct. The caller is in hysterics, emotionally destroyed again. This time it had been due to Trace’s cousin, Pete. They’ve been together less than six months and the written voicemail was correct. I throw on a clean set of clothes and bolt for Trace’s place here in LA, mad as hell as I wonder why she didn’t call Justin or JC first.

I pull up to the house, having already called Trace to forewarn him that I would be over very shortly. I jump out of the car and slam on the door, silence greeting me. No car but hers in the driveway. She could be asleep. I wait for Trace’s tragic ass to come home, my ass beginning to hurt from sitting on his steps when he does decide to show up. “Nice of you to finally get here,” I mumble sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah. What I don’t get is why she hasn’t called JC or Justin, even Lance is a better choice.”

With the door unlocked and open now, I stand in the front hall. “Which room is hers?”

“Hers? Do you mean Pete’s?”

“Whatever room she stays in when she is here,” I clarify.

I’m quickly growing impatient with his bullshit. “The hall off the kitchen on the right, third door on your left.”

I quickly walk to the room that he indicated, turning the knob and finding it locked. I dart for the kitchen, open the drawer she told me has a secret compartment only she knows about and pull a pocket knife with a spring release on it out. I open it and use it to pop the door open. I’m shocked at what I find. “Trace! I’m going to kill your fucking cousin!” I scream, lifting her limp body and moving as fast as I can after taking a quick picture and sending it off to Justin and JC, knowing one of them will no doubt forward it to Lance.

“What in the fuck for?”

“She’s hanging onto life by a single thread and go look at that room,” I growl, quickly darting out the door and heading for the nearest hospital. The second I carried her into the ER, a nurse took one look at her and I and snatches her from my arms. I finally chance looking down after they got her into the room, waiting outside her door and I realize why the nurse had rushed us back here. My clothes are covered in crimson red blood and I lean back on the wall, bawling like a baby out of fear for her. My phone rings and I answer it, informing the caller of the specific ER we had gone to and they say they’ll be here in forty-five to an hour at most. Do I know who I had told that? I know it was someone close to her, someone who’s known her for at least half her life.

A nurse places her hand on my shoulder and I look up, sniffling and wiping my eyes as I look into her amber orbs. “Do you know her name?”

“Samantha Chasez.”

“Birthdate?”

“Ja-January 10, 1983.”

My breath is ragged and I’m scared to lose someone like her. “Closest relative?”

“Joshua Chasez.”

She pushes a pen and paper into my hands, wanting me to write down his phone number and address. “Could you give me his phone number?”

“He-he’s on his way now.”

“What’s your name?”

“Chris Kirkpatrick.”

“My name is Greta. Why don’t you come sit with her?”

I nod and she helps me to my feet, guiding me into one of my best friend’s baby sister’s hospital room. I take her hand, sitting in the chair beside the bed. “C’mon, Bean, you need to stay here.”

“Keep talking to her, she might hold on longer.”